


The Plague

by nerdprincess73



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdprincess73/pseuds/nerdprincess73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's sick and annoying. He makes questionable purchases when unwell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plague

**Author's Note:**

> I had a cold this past week and felt miserable and like my brain had melted. I thought Sherlock might feel the same.  
> Oneshot.

Outside of 221B Baker Street, a passerby hears a horrible sound. A wracking cough. A pained moan. Then, “Jooooohhhhhhnnnn.” The man hurries by, deciding he doesn’t dare find out what is making that awful sound.

  
Inside, Sherlock is lying on the sofa, bundled in several blankets. His nose is red, his eyes watery, and his mouth is hanging open while he breathes heavily. “Jooooooohhhhhhnnn.”

  
John comes down from his room, glaring at his flatmate. “What is it, Sherlock?”

  
“I think it’s the plague, John.” His words are slow and tired sounding, his voice raw.

  
John plants his hands on his hips and stares at the floor, trying to find a proper response to Sherlock. “It’s not the plague,” he says finally. “You do not have the plague, you are not dying. You have a cold. That’s it. That’s all.”

  
“It’s awful,” Sherlock complains. “Why do people do this?”

  
“Do what—Sherlock, people don’t—you don’t decide to be sick. Didn’t you learn this at some point? Viruses and all that?” John’s brow is creased with disbelief. It’s the solar system all over again.

  
Sherlock attempts to roll his eyes, but it takes too much effort. He winds up staring at the ceiling with his head back. “I deleted it all. What do I care about a cold? I don’t get sick. It must be the plague.”

  
“Sher—it’s not the plague. You’ll be fine.” John turns toward the kitchen, muttering to himself, “So long as I don’t kill you first.”

  
The moment John is out of sight, it begins again.

  
“Jooooohhhhhnnnn.”

  
“I’m in the kitchen, Sherlock.” John looks through the cabinets, hoping to find something to quiet Sherlock.

  
“I’m dying, John. Can’t you do something?”

  
“You’re not dying, Sherlock.” Perhaps some soup will do the trick.

  
“Jooooohhhnnnn.” Only a Cup-a-Soup, and that wouldn’t do. Sherlock would only complain more. “John, I’m dying. You must record my last words for posterity.”

  
John shakes his head and picks up his coat. “You’ll be fine. I’m going out.”

  
“Don’t leave me.” Sherlock slides down slowly until his head can rest on the arm of the sofa. “I think my IQ is dropping. You have to do something, John. I’ll be average by Tuesday. I have to check. They have tests on the internet.” He starts to sit forward to reach for John’s laptop.

  
“Sherlock, you’re being ridiculous,” John says, coming across the room to move his laptop out of reach. Sherlock’s of course is over on his desk. John sets the computer aside and considers for a moment. In Sherlock’s current state, he’ll not be getting up even to make a point.

  
“Please John.”

  
John ignores him, pulling on his coat. “Won’t be gone long,” he says, and hurries out the door.

  
Sherlock pouts for a moment, then realizes he can’t breathe with his mouth shut and opens it once more. He waits for a moment and then an idea strikes him. “Mrs. Hudson.” He catches his breath and tries again. “Mrs. Hudsoooooonnn.”

  
“Oh, listen to you carrying on up here,” Mrs. Hudson says coming up the stairs. “Oh dear, you look like you’ve caught your death, Sherlock.”

  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Finally someone talking sense,” Sherlock agrees. “John left. I’m sick.”

  
“Tell you what, I’ll make you a nice cuppa tea,” Mrs. Hudson says, heading toward the kitchen.

  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be lovely.”

  
While Mrs. Hudson messed about in the kitchen, Sherlock struggled to his feet, taking his nest of blankets along. He shuffles across the room, as quietly as he could, toward John’s laptop, knowing Mrs. Hudson will scold him for getting up, and being too worn out to want to hear it.

  
“That’s what you get for running about at all hours,” she says from the other room.

When he reaches the other side of the room, he realizes his miscalculation, his arms wrapped up inside of the pile of blankets. He carefully worms one hand out, dropping one of the layers, and quickly grabs the laptop. As he shuffles back to the couch, he can feel the blanket working its way toward the floor somewhere between two other blankets, tripping him up.

  
He flops onto the sofa again, and begins wrestling with the blankets to free his arms. After a bit of a struggle, and a near victory for the blankets, he manages to rearrange himself, each arm individually wrapped to maintain optimal warmth and mobility. For a moment, Sherlock considers purchasing a novelty blanket he’d seen advertised that had sleeves.

  
He searches for them and finds a couple different ones. After careful consideration, he orders one of each. At best, he figures, he’ll have four cozy new blankets to wrap himself in while he’s dying. At worst, he can analyze and compare them and add that as his last entry to his website before the plague takes him.

  
Now that the blanket situation has been handled, Sherlock decides to get down to business. He finds an online IQ test and sets about answering the questions.

  
Mrs. Hudson brings in tea for him “Just how you like it, Sherlock” and he ignores her in the name of science.

  
When he gets his result, Sherlock is totally silent for a long moment. Stunned beyond belief. And extremely upset.

  
He can’t even speak until he hears John’s footsteps on the stairs.

  
“Twenty five points, John,” he says, his voice rough. He coughs some. “John, my IQ has dropped twenty five points. Where have you been?”

  
John holds up a takeaway bag, concern creasing his brow. “You could have deduced that in a second Sherlock. You’re getting lazy.”

  
“I’m dying, John. And what’s worse is I’ll be average when I do,” Sherlock insists.

  
“Your brain’s just busy, Sherlock. I got you some of that garlic and kale soup you like,” John says.

  
“You got me soup.”

  
“Well, it was either I go get soup or listen to you complain about being bored and plague infested and kill you while you sleep.” John goes into the kitchen and serves a bowl of soup for Sherlock, which he trades for his laptop. “Honestly, I thought it couldn’t get worse than being without a case, but I guess I was wrong.”

  
Sherlock eats his soup noisily, slurping the broth and studying John’s reactions. After the first couple times, there is none. “This is ridiculous, John. Soup won’t make me well.”

  
“I’d hoped for less irritating,” John answers seriously. “But there is something to suggest that soup does help cure a cold.”

  
“It’s nothing but a placebo effect,” Sherlock decides. “It won’t work with my superior intellect.”

  
John tries to suppress a smirk. “Yes, well your superior intellect is on holiday while you’re sick, so maybe it just might work.”

  
Sherlock ignores him and finishes his soup, slurping every single bit of it.

  
Once he has finished, Sherlock begins to get drowsy, and soon falls asleep, snoring rather loudly.

  
John considers for a moment simply smothering him, but heads off to get a little rest before Sherlock wakes again and begins yelling once more.

 

  
Three days later, Sherlock and John return to 221B Baker Street from an easy case, just enough to test out Sherlock’s mind again, to find a number of packages waiting for them. Sherlock bounds up the stairs, ready to begin his experiment, John following behind, simply shaking his head.

**Author's Note:**

> I also posted this on my Tumblr a few days back. It's still me.


End file.
